Ginger Learns a Lesson
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Following his adventures with Biggles, Algy and Bertie in the Argentine, Ginger spends some time in the country with Cub Peters and together they foil a sinister plot. By HRH.
1. A shock to the system

A Shock To The System

"I'm sorry, young man, I can't possibly pass you as fit." The speaker looked sympathetically at the young pilot in front of him. "Although it is nearly three months since your injuries, I'm not at all happy with your condition." He consulted the folder on the desk in front of him. "The infection that developed in your arm is more or less under control now, although you may find it is tender for a while yet, but the dizzy spells you have started experiencing recently as a result of your head wound are a worry. They mean you would be more of a danger to yourself and the rest of your squadron than to Jerry." He wrote on the medical record in front of him. "I'm standing you down for three weeks initially. I'll see you again at the end of that time and review your case. If you have no more periods of dizziness we shall be able to put you back on active service."

Ginger felt his mouth go dry with shock. Having always enjoyed good health, apart from chronic tonsillitis in his childhood, solved by their removal in his early teens, he had anticipated no problems with returning to squadron strength after his adventures in the Argentine. The doctor's words sent him into what Bertie would have described as "a flat spin".

The doctor seemed unaware of the devastating effect of his words as he continued, "Take a complete rest. Get some fresh air," he looked at Ginger over the top of his glasses. "Spend some time with your girl-friend in the country." Ginger winced inwardly, the wound still raw.

"Thank you, doctor," he said quickly to stem the flow of advice. "I'll do that." He rose, put on his cap, saluted and left, his mind in a whirl. All very well for the MO to tell him to spend some time resting in the country, he thought as he made his way along the Strand, headed for the Mount Street flat where Biggles, who had been summoned to a conference with Air Commodore Raymond, leaving Algy in charge of the squadron, was waiting to find out if Ginger had passed the Medical Board. Bertie was the only person he knew who had a country estate, and that had been requisitioned as a girls school. Somehow he could not see himself spending three weeks surrounded by shrieking fourth formers, even if it could be arranged.

The Fates had decided to be kind, however, for as he walked slowly down the thoroughfare putting off the moment when he had to tell Biggles the bad news, he suddenly heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw a slim, blond young man of roughly his own age hurrying towards him. For a moment, he could not place him, but then in a flood of recognition he realised it was Nigel Peters, better known as Cub, whom he had met when the squadron had helped out with transport for the Commando raids of King's "Kittens".

The two spent some time exchanging news and when Ginger told Cub about the doctor's advice an invitation to spend some time with him on his father's farm in East Anglia was immediately forthcoming. "The Guv'nor will be delighted to see you," Cub assured him, overcoming any resistance. "I told him all about you and the rest of the lads. I've got some leave coming and some company would be especially welcome. Look," he continued, enthusiastically, "I'm up here for the night, staying at the old man's club. I have to finish some business at Holland and Holland but after that, I'm free and I'm going home tomorrow. Why don't we have dinner together tonight and we can travel down together in the morning?"

Ginger agreed that it sounded a good idea. The prospect of three weeks away from squadron life took on a less unappealing aspect at the thought of Cub's company as the two, so close in age, had formed an enduring friendship through their adventures together. They made arrangements to meet that evening at the United Services Club, familiarly known as the In and Out, owing to the inscriptions on its gates, and went their separate ways.

Biggles was sitting reading and smoking a cigarette when Ginger returned. One look at the expression on his protégé's face was enough to tell him it was not good news, which Ginger swiftly confirmed. At Biggles' enquiry as to what he had planned, Ginger recounted his meeting with Cub and the invitation.

"Good idea," endorsed Biggles. "I know Colonel Peters. He'll make you welcome. We shall miss you," he remarked, looking keenly at the young man who stood by the fireplace, "but three weeks will pass very quickly. The important thing is that you make a full recovery and the squadron can be up to strength," he stressed. Then he smiled wryly. "If you haven't lost your appetite, ring the bell for Mrs Symes. We'll have some tea."

Ginger suited the action to the word and proving his appetite was undiminished by his injuries did full justice to the magnificent spread that the housekeeper managed to provide, despite the exigencies of rationing. "You're a marvel, Mrs S," he complimented her as she came to take away the remains of the meal. "I don't know how you do it."

The housekeeper smiled fondly. She had a more than soft spot for the young man that Biggles and Algy had brought home before the war. She had watched Ginger grow up into a good-looking young man whose early deprivations still showed in his lack of stature and slight frame, despite all her attempts at spoiling him. Although the Mrs was an honorary title, bestowed on her by virtue of her occupation, Mrs Symes regarded her "gentlemen" as her family and was determined to do her best for them despite all that Hitler's minions could throw at her.

When the housekeeper had disappeared once more into the kitchen that was her domain, Biggles eyed Ginger with a rueful smile. "You twist that woman round your little finger," he teased. "She will do anything for you. I shan't get anything like the same service once you've gone on holiday. No-one would think I pay the bills," he grumbled, mock angrily.

Ginger smiled and refused to be drawn. If the truth were known, he felt very tired. His arm was troublesome in spite of being close to fully healed and he could feel a dull ache in his temple. He made an excuse about packing for an early morning departure and went to his room.

The next thing he realised was Biggles shaking him by the shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Biggles' concerned expression suddenly change to asperity. "You're going to be late for dinner," he accused, hiding his concern under irritability. "You haven't even changed yet! Mrs Symes has run your bath. Get a move on!"

Ginger pulled himself together and looked at the pile of civilian clothes he'd started to amass before the dreadful wave of lassitude had swept over him, causing him to stretch out on the bed where Biggles had found him several hours later. He passed his hand across his eyes and went to make his ablutions before donning his best blue for dinner with Cub.

Fortunately it was not far to the In and Out, as there was not a taxi to be had. Ginger announced himself to the porter and was escorted to the member's library where Cub was waiting, idling away the time with a newspaper.

He stood up, tossing the broad-sheet aside. Like a drink?" he invited his guest.

Ginger hesitated. "No thanks," he declined. "I've given that up, now."

Cub looked at him curiously. "It's a long story," said Ginger, "I'll tell you all about it over dinner."

Cub gestured to the chair facing him the other side of the fireplace and they both sat down. Despite the length of time since they had last met, the conversation flowed easily and they picked up their friendship where it had left off. They were still filling in details when the elderly porter came across and announced that their table was ready. Together they walked across to the dining room, Ginger in his Royal Air Force uniform and Cub in full dress Royal Marine Commando mess kit.

The porter led them across to a table near the window. The blackout was firmly in place and gave a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere to the room. They sat down and Ginger told Cub all about his recent adventures as they attacked a substantial if rather tasteless meal that conformed to war standards.

"I shall be glad to get home," confessed Cub, pushing his plate away. "At least we get decent grub."

Ginger murmured something about rationing.

"Rabbits aren't on ration," remarked Cub. "I need to keep my eye in - for when I have a chance to take a pot shot at Jerry," he smiled. "Bring your guns, Ginger," he counselled. "We'll get lots of opportunity for shooting."

Ginger confessed he did not own a shotgun. "I hardly think I can ask Smyth to take the Brownings out of my Spit," he continued dryly. "I should imagine that, apart from being very unsporting, it might be considered misuse of War Department property," he grinned.

Cub laughed. "I wouldn't like to try to eat the result, either! Never mind," he reassured his companion. "I'm sure we'll have some sport any way." He looked at his watch. "Good grief," he ejaculated, "is that the time? Sorry, Ginger, but I'm going to turn in. We'll be catching the 6.30 from Liverpool Street tomorrow morning. I suggest you get an early night, too."

They both went down to the lobby where Cub saw Ginger off with a reminder not to be late the next morning.

The night was clear and cold for the time of year. With the blackout, the stars shone brightly like diamonds strewn across a black velvet cloth. Ginger leaned against the Out pillar and enjoyed the cool of the night air on his cheek for a moment before setting off back to the flat. He did not hurry for despite Cub's protestations, it was not very late. There were still pedestrians in the streets, some of whom, lacking good night vision nearly collided with him. Blessed with extremely good night sight, Ginger found the moonlight lit the streets with a blue light that was nearly as bright as day. Looking up he saw faint wisps of cloud veiling the moon and thought of the bomber crews ploughing their lonely course across the landscape. As if the wish was father to the thought, the sirens suddenly sounded. Far to the south he could see the long fingers of the searchlights probing for the attackers.

Ginger knew that there was no possibility of reaching his home before the bombs began to drop so he made his way to the nearest Underground station. Any port in a storm, he thought as he clattered down the steps with others who had the same idea. When he emerged on the platform he was astounded at the sight that met his gaze. There were ranks of bunks along the edge of the tunnel. Families grouped around with flasks of tea and sandwiches, some playing cards. Someone jostled him. "You should be up there!" the man told him angrily. "Why aren't you shooting them down? Brylcreem boy!" he said scornfully. The speaker was well-fed and dressed in a trilby. He looked a typical spiv, Ginger thought.

"Leave 'im alone," said a woman from the first bunk before Ginger could say anything in his own defence. "Pay no attention to 'im, luv," she advised Ginger. "'E don't want no fightin'. 'E's too busy makin' a pile from the black market."

The man muttered angrily and hurried off up the platform, leaving Ginger to smile his thanks at the woman. She was in her late forties and had had a hard life judged by the lines etched on her kindly face. "You on leave, luv?" she wanted to know.

Ginger owned that he was. "Fought so, I c'n tell. Been wounded?" At Ginger's surprised look, she told him, "I got the gift, see. Me muvver was a gypsy. Second sight," she clarified when Ginger looked mystified. "Give me yer 'and." Ginger hesitated, reluctant to have any truck with fortune-telling, but she reached out and took hold of his hand, turning it palm up. In the dim light she scrutinised it. Ginger regarded her curiously, not knowing what to think. "You was very poor," she started, "but now you 'ave rich friends." She looked at him, "there's someone special," she said, regarding him steadily. "Someone very important to you." She looked at his hand again and frowned. "I see the shadow of a limping man crossin' yer path. Beware of 'im," she warned. "'E means you no good." Then she continued, more tenderly, "you've lost someone dear to you recently." Ginger withdrew his hand and she regarded him sympathetically. "You'll 'ave a long and 'appy life, luv," she assured him, gently, "and so will yer friends." Ginger took a deep breath, at a loss for words. Just then the all-clear sounded and she shooed him away. "Go and give 'em 'ell when you get back to yer squadron," she admonished him. He thanked her and went back up into the fresh air, oddly comforted by the strange encounter.

With no more alarms, he swiftly reached Mount Street and let himself in. Biggles had already retired so he helped himself to a glass of milk in the kitchen, where he left a note for the housekeeper to warn her he would not be in for breakfast, before he turned in. He noticed before he went to bed that Mrs Symes had packed the clothes he had left out.


	2. A journey of discovery

A Journey of Discovery

The shrilling of a bell dragged Ginger from a deep sleep. He was instantly awake, his heart thumping and a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach before he identified the sound and realised it was his alarm clock, summoning him to the start of his sick leave rather than an offensive sortie. He rose reluctantly, pulling on his dressing gown. There was no light under Biggles' door as he passed on his way to the bathroom, so he was careful not to make any noise. In the chill, early light of dawn, Ginger finished his toilet and, dressed in civilian clothes, went into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Quiet though he had been, Mrs Symes was waiting for him. Brushing aside his apologies, she insisted on cooking him what she called a "proper breakfast". The sound of their voices must have roused Biggles, who was always a light sleeper, for just then he entered the room and greeted the pair. Biggles and Ginger sat down to one of Mrs Symes' "specials" as Ginger recounted the events of the previous evening.

"She seemed pretty convinced we were all going to make it," he concluded.

"Well, you know what I think," said Biggles, putting a thin scrape of marmalade on his toast. "You'll either make it or you won't; if you make it, there's no need to worry. If you don't make it," he regarded Ginger sombrely, "you can't worry!" He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Then he glanced at his watch and announced, "You'd better be making tracks. I'll come to the station with you and give you a hand with the luggage," he offered. "I doubt very much that we'll be able to get a taxi."

Biggles' prediction was correct. At fifteen minutes past six, the pair made their way onto the platform at Liverpool Street where the Norwich train was standing. Even at that early hour, the place was crowded, mainly with troops in uniform and sundry wives and girlfriends who had come to see them off to who knew what Fate lay in store for them. Cub was already there, idly looking at a poster that warned everyone that walls had ears. By his foot rested a long leather case that obviously held the object of his "business with Holland and Holland" that he had mentioned the previous day. He also had a small, leather suitcase. Unlike Ginger, he was in uniform. He turned and saw them, his face breaking into a smile. He and Biggles shook hands, chatted briefly and Cub promised he would pass on Biggles' best wishes to his father, Colonel Peters.

The engine hissed as it built up steam, announcing its imminent departure. Cub and Ginger got into the train and found an empty compartment. Biggles helped them stow the luggage. There was a moment of uneasy silence then Biggles clapped Ginger gently on the shoulder and said, "Take care of yourself, laddie. Have a good time." With that, he turned on his heel and alighted from the train. Ginger watched him weave his way through the throng until he had disappeared from view. He settled back in his seat to find Cub watching him intently.

The train gave a sudden jerk. A whistle blew. With a shudder and then with ever increasing speed, the train drew out of the station on its long journey eastward. Cub and Ginger talked desultorily. The journey seemed interminable with frequent halts for no apparent reason. When it was moving, the train clanked and rattled to the clacking accompaniment of the points. About lunchtime, as the train waited at yet another danger signal, Ginger produced the packed lunch Mrs Symes had thoughtfully provided for him and the two of them devoured it ravenously. Almost an hour later, the train eventually drew into the station where they were to alight. There was the usual flurry of activity as they disembarked to the accompaniment of shouts, whistles and clouds of steam. Ginger flicked a speck of soot off his sleeve.

Cub, meanwhile, had located his father who had come to meet them. Ginger greeted the Colonel punctiliously, having been warned that the old soldier was a stickler for the niceties. Colonel Peters was obviously in a good mood. Cub winked at Ginger as the Colonel took the leather gun case from his son and ran his hand lovingly over it.

"Have you got the motor car outside, sir?" asked Ginger innocently.

"Motor car?" the Colonel exploded. "Motor car? Don't you know there's a war on, boy?" he demanded indignantly. "We can't go using petrol! I've brought the dog cart."

Quite what the Colonel meant by this announcement Ginger was not sure, but when the party emerged from the station the sight that met his gaze caused him some surprise. Hitched to a rail in front of the station stood a chestnut hunter mare, harnessed to a gleaming black two-wheeled cart. Cub opened the louvered doors beneath the seats and stowed the luggage in the compartment that usually held the dogs. The Colonel took the reins and prepared to mount.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" he snapped as Ginger looked at the strange contraption, wondering how he was expected to get on. "We haven't got all day, you know!"

Cub pointed out the metal step and Ginger swung himself up onto the conveyance in much the same manner as he climbed into his Spitfire. The difference between the two means of transport, he discovered, was that the Spitfire did not move as he was trying to get aboard. The Colonel growled at the mare, who laid her ears back, and Cub applied some much needed assistance in the form of a well-timed push. When they were all aboard, the Colonel flicked the mare with his whip and they were soon spanking along out of the town.

Ginger was not sure he really enjoyed the new experience. The mare's trot set up a yawing that left him feeling slightly seasick. Cub beside him seemed totally unaffected. Despite the sunshine, the wind was cold and Ginger, attired more for city living than an open air life, began to feel decidedly under dressed. He was just wishing he had worn his flying jacket when the Colonel slowed the mare to a walk before turning into a rutted drive which meandered through fields. As the cart lurched round the last bend a large farm house came into view. The building was draped in ivy and looked as though it had been nestling in the landscape for several centuries. As the Colonel swung the cart round to draw up in front of the door, an old man, bent and bandy legged, hurried out of the stable yard to take the mare's head. The Colonel exchanged a few words with the wizened groom before alighting with an athleticism that would have done credit to a man half his age.

Cub and Ginger followed him. Cub retrieved the luggage and the old groom led the mare away. As Ginger picked up his suitcase, Cub saw the initials HRH stamped in the leather. Overcome by curiosity, he asked Ginger what the HR stood for. Ginger blushed deep crimson and mumbled that he would rather not say, admitting that his mother had been very fond of romantic fiction. "Let's just leave it at Ginger, if you don't mind," he pleaded. "Everybody calls me that."

Cub shrugged to indicate it was of no consequence and they went into the hall. The floor tiles were uneven but the furniture gleamed with the result of years of loving polish. A bowl of late summer roses stood on the sixteenth century coffer that occupied pride of place along the left-hand wall, scenting the air with their heady perfume. A flight of stairs led up to a broad landing lit by a stained glass window. The staircase wall resembled a portrait gallery with ancient, dark canvases in heavy gilt frames showing a variety of men and women in old costumes.

"Leave the luggage in the hall," instructed Cub. "We can take it up later." He pushed open a broad, oak door and ushered Ginger into the drawing room. Ginger took in the dark, oak panelling and huge inglenook fireplace, in which, despite the time of year, a log fire was burning cheerfully.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Cub remarked, "We're lucky we can get plenty of logs from the estate. We're counted as 'south' here as far as the coal ration goes, but the wind whips across from Siberia with nothing in its way. You'll find it very cold," he warned his guest as he led him across to where the Colonel was already ensconced in an armchair, reading the paper.

"Sit down, my boy," invited Colonel Peters. "Do you play bridge?" he asked Ginger hopefully.

"I'm afraid, I don't, sir," replied Ginger apologetically, finding a seat on the edge of the sofa nearest the fire. Cub sat beside him.

"Hmph, pity," grumbled the Colonel. He looked at his watch. "Ring the bell, Nigel," he continued, "Let's have some tea."

The meal, when it arrived, was beautifully presented and featured home grown produce. Cub had been correct in asserting that the food at his home was better than in London, thought Ginger.

Cub had also been correct about the cold, Ginger reflected. The side of his body nearest to the fire was roasting, but an icy draught chilled the rest of him. He began to appreciate why Cub continued to wear his uniform when he might have been in mufti and bitterly regretted not having packed more woollens. He recalled being told that cities were always a degree or two warmer than the countryside and wished he had paid more attention when he made his preparations.

After tea, Cub showed Ginger up to his room. It was on the second floor and had a magnificent view over the marshes. When he had deposited Ginger's suitcase, Cub demonstrated how to fix the blackout so not a chink of light showed. "The Warden is very hot on infringements," he warned his guest. "A little power has gone to his head, frankly," he opined, "but if you show so much as a glimmer he'll take great pleasure in fining us."

Ginger nodded in understanding and promised to be careful.

Cub took him down the corridor to the bathroom at the end. Although the bath had the statutory line around it, it was so large Ginger estimated it probably held the equivalent of two normal-size regulation baths. It had a metal screen attached to the end with a ferocious array of plumbing. Cub smiled at the look on Ginger's face. "I advise you not to try getting the shower to work," he counselled. "It's extremely temperamental." Ginger nodded, thoughtfully.

"Dinner is at eight," continued Cub. "The Lord Lieutenant is coming. Black tie," he added casually.

"What!" gasped Ginger, appalled.

Cub regarded him sympathetically. "Don't tell me, you haven't brought a dinner jacket."

Ginger nodded, dismayed. "Biggles hates to dress for dinner," he explained. "We never bother at home. I haven't even packed my uniform, which would have done at a pinch."

Cub thought for a moment. "I have a spare which might be a reasonable fit if we turn the trousers up," he murmured. "Come and see." He led the way back down the corridor to his room which was next to the one allocated to Ginger.

Cub's bedroom shared the same magnificent view over the stark, flat landscape. It still had many of the trappings of his childhood; sporting trophies, rosettes, tennis racquets, a cricket bat, books lining the wall. Jutting out from the wall was a huge, four poster bed, which Ginger eyed with curiosity. The bulbous, dark oak posts were heavily carved and he ran his fingers over the raised pattern, fascinated by the workmanship.

Seeing Cub watching him, Ginger coloured slightly and withdrew his hand, almost guiltily. "I've only ever seen them in books," he confessed sheepishly, with a faintly embarrassed grin. "I didn't know people still used them."

Cub, who had taken the bed for granted because it had always been there, was charmed by Ginger's naivety. It reminded him that for all his apparent sophistication, Ginger still had a lot of experience of the world to gain. He went across to his wardrobe and began to sort through the clothes. Eventually he found what he was looking for and fished out an evening suit.

When Ginger slipped on the jacket, it fitted so well it might have been made for him. As, however, he was several inches shorter than Cub the trousers needed to be taken up, a feat which Cub accomplished surprisingly well. Ginger stood in front of the mirror admiring his dinner-jacketed reflection.

"You'll do," opined Cub. "Here's a boiled shirt, some studs and a tie." He hesitated, "You can tie a bow tie, can't you?" he asked, thinking Ginger's education might be lacking in certain sartorial areas.

"I'll call you if I need help," Ginger assured him with a wry smile.

At five minutes to eight o'clock, the dinner gong reverberated through the house. Ginger, his face still glowing from a hot bath, and feeling rather conspicuous in his borrowed finery, made his way downstairs. Cub overtook him as he reached the hall.

"Just time for a swift sherry, if you'd like one," he offered as they reached the drawing room door, but Ginger declined and moments later, Cub was making the introductions to the Lord Lieutenant of the County, his wife and Cub's aunt, Lady Honoria, who had taken the opportunity of visiting her brother-in-law by travelling over from the county town with the Lord Lieutenant.

As Biggles was not one for high society, Ginger's experience of it was extremely limited but the dinner was not such a fraught affair as he anticipated it might be. The guests proved unexpectedly good company and there was much laughter and light conversation. Ginger kept his wits about him and limited his remarks to subjects he was familiar with, watching covertly and learning all the time. Cub silently approved his friend's perspicacity. The Colonel clearly intended that the mere fact that there was a war on should not allow any relaxing of standards. The silverware gleamed, the crystal sparkled and there was the wizened groom who had met the dog cart that afternoon to wait at table. There was no wine to accompany the meal, for which the Colonel apologised, saying he could not bring himself to drink the Algerian muck that was now available, but Ginger did not feel a lack. He also declined the whisky the Colonel offered him afterwards. He felt he had exorcised that particular demon. 'We don't booze and we don't brood,' Biggles had told him. His experiences in the Argentine had been cathartic. He no longer felt the need either to booze or to brood. As he stood in the hall with the Colonel and Cub to see off the Lord Lieutenant and his party, Ginger felt he had come of age.


	3. Life in the country

Life in the Country

Physically tired by the events of the day, but mentally stimulated by the dinner party, Ginger prepared for bed. The wind had got up during the evening and was now whistling around the eaves and rattling the windows. It was a wild night. From time to time rain lashed the small, leaded panes of the mullioned window. Ginger switched off the light, mindful of the blackout restrictions, and felt his way across to where the latch was being shaken by the violent gusts. He knew if he did not secure it, the rattling would keep him awake all night.

Ginger opened the heavy curtains and began to fiddle with the fitting. He had just made it secure when, in the distance, something caught his eye. A light had flashed, flaring briefly like someone striking a match. In an instant it had gone, leaving him wondering if he had imagined it. He glanced at his watch. The luminous hands showed him it was half past one. He stood at the window oblivious of the cold, waiting for a repetition of the incident, but the night remained rain-lashed and wind-swept, the darkness unbroken.

He pictured the scene as he remembered it from looking out that afternoon. The light had appeared to be far out on the salt flats. It was the wrong time for a wild-fowler. Perhaps it was a poacher. He made a mental note to mention it to Cub in the morning.

Feeling suddenly chilly, he drew the curtains and blotted out the stormy landscape. The bed was warm and welcome after the cold night air. Someone had thoughtfully provided a hot water bottle, he realised gratefully. The wind was still howling around the farmhouse as he drifted into sleep.

He awoke the next morning to a gentle tap on the door. Cub came in with a tray bearing a cup of tea and a biscuit, which he put down on the bedside table before going across to fling the curtains wide open. Daylight flooded the room and Ginger screwed up his eyes at the sudden light.

"Did you sleep well?" inquired Cub solicitously. "It was a really wild night last night. I think it brought some slates off the roof."

Ginger told him about the light he had seen in the marshes. Cub thought about it for a moment and then remarked that it was probably poachers. "There's a lot about," he said resignedly, "but I don't know what they hoped to get out there."

"We breakfast in the kitchen," announced Cub, "But don't be too long, because the Guv'nor likes everything cleared away by 8.30," he warned.

Ginger swung his legs out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. "So does Biggles," he remarked, pulling it on.

At 8.15 Ginger presented himself at the kitchen, scrubbed and fresh-faced. The Colonel had already eaten and departed, but Cub was seated at the table, about to tackle a plate of bacon and eggs.

"I see what you meant about the food," remarked Ginger as he helped himself from the hot plate and sat down.

"We keep our own hens," explained Cub. "The bacon came off one of our pigs, too. Life in the country," he remarked sagely, "is very different from life in the town."

There was silence for a while as they savoured the meal. When the last mouthfuls had been consumed, Cub's spaniel, as if by some sixth sense, came out of her basket by the Aga and made her way over to lie at his feet, gazing adoringly at him. Absent-mindedly, Cub rubbed the dog's ears. The terrier, who had been sharing the bed, sauntered over in a much more jaunty fashion and sat down on Ginger's foot, much to his amusement.

"I'm going to take the dogs for a run and see if we can bag a rabbit shortly," Cub announced. "Would you like to come?" Although the query was addressed to Ginger, there was no doubting the dogs had thought it was directed at them. In unison, they rose and rushed to the door, tails wagging frantically.

Having nothing special to do, and thinking that if he was to take the doctor's advice about fresh air, he might as well start immediately, Ginger nodded and rose from the table. He followed Cub through into the lobby which was crammed full of boots, fishing tackle, shooting sticks, hunting whips and waterproofs of all descriptions.

"This should fit you," surmised Cub, offering Ginger a well-worn waxed jacket. He himself was wearing a heavy tweed jacket, breeks and thick woollen stockings.

When Ginger had been kitted out with warm, all-weather gear, he accompanied Cub into the gun room where he watched as Cub selected a side-by-side from the rack, broke the gun with a practised flick and put some cartridges in his pocket. By now the dogs were whining and running round in circles with anticipation. As soon as Cub opened the back door they squeezed through the crack without waiting for it to be fully opened and rushed into the yard, yapping with joy. Cub whistled them back and growled at them until they came to heel. With his tweeds, shotgun in the crook of his arm and the dogs at his side, Cub fitted perfectly into the landscape, thought Ginger, contrasting his own upbringing with that of his companion.

Almost as though he could read Ginger's thoughts, Cub remarked, "I don't suppose you've done much of this, have you?"

"No," answered Ginger dryly, "there wasn't a lot of time for shooting in my village. If anything, we would have been on the other side of the fence. Anything to feed the bairns." Unconsciously, the dialect word slipped out. For so long, it seemed, he had been surrounded by southerners and members of the officer class, that the old, familiar but non-standard vocabulary had been buried. Now, thinking back to his beginnings in a small, mining village near Newcastle, the associations had brought it to the surface. "Children, I mean," he corrected himself quickly.

Cub changed the subject by suggesting that they started their expedition in the Long Meadow, which was near the salt marshes. "We might as well have a look and see if we can find any clue as to who showed that light last night, while we're there," he added, climbing a gate into a field and striking off across the meadow.

Although the sun was shining, the wind was cold and penetrating, just like the previous day. Ginger could well believe Cub's description of it coming straight from Siberia across the North Sea. He was glad of the waxed jacket. Cub's cheeks were glowing in the chill air and Ginger guessed he would look as ruddy if he could see himself. 'Well,' he thought, 'there's no shortage of fresh air here, let's hope it does the trick'.

The dogs were snuffling and scuffling in the undergrowth of the headland. Now and again they would disappear. Suddenly, the spaniel flushed a rabbit. Cub slipped two cartridges in the gun, snapped it shut, swung after the rabbit, laying off just the right amount of deflection, and fired, all in one easy movement. The rabbit bowled over and lay still. At a signal from Cub the spaniel retrieved the carcass as he ejected the spent cartridge and emptied the breech. Ginger looked approvingly at his companion. "That was very smooth," he complimented.

Cub smiled deprecatingly. "I've had a lot of practice." He bent down and took the dead rabbit from the dog, telling her what a good girl she was. The spaniel positively glowed at the praise. The terrier had its head down a burrow. Meeting Ginger's gaze, he remarked, "a dog will worship even the most worthless of men." He smiled, slightly embarrassed at the sentiment. "Sorry, the solitude here, the wildness, makes me a bit philosophical at times."

Ginger looked around. The flat landscape seemed to stretch into infinity and the sky was a vast space that dominated the scene. Such trees as clung to a precarious existence in the stark landscape were bent by the prevailing wind. An air of desolate melancholy hung over the marshes. He shivered. Cub was immediately solicitous, asking if he was cold. "No," answered Ginger sombrely, "I think someone just walked over my grave."

Cub suggested that they move on and get the blood circulating anyway. He wanted to see if there were any traces of poachers in the marshes. "Watch your step," he warned Ginger. "The mud is very treacherous. You wouldn't want to get trapped. These flats are entirely covered at high tide."

Cub whistled the dogs. His spaniel came to him immediately, stump of a tail wagging so hard she nearly fell over. There was no sign of the terrier. Cub whistled again, louder this time and more peremptorily. Still no response. "Where has the dratted thing got to," muttered Cub. "Down an earth again, I expect." He ran his eye over the hedgerows but failed to see the animal. "I shall have to find him, Ginger," he muttered. "I shall never rest until I know where he is."

Together they set off to search the undergrowth. Near the edge of the salt flats, just above the high tide mark, Ginger spotted the tip of a black tail waving, the only part of the dog left above ground. Suppressing a smile, he called Cub over.

Cub was less amused. He seized the dog by the tail and pulled. Like a cork popping from a bottle, the terrier shot out of the earth backwards. Clamped in its jaws was a piece of black rubbery material. Now free to move, the terrier shook his prize vehemently, trying to kill it. Cub and Ginger exchanged glances. "What does that look like to you?" asked Cub.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was a piece of dinghy," replied Ginger slowly.

"I'd say you were right," acknowledged Cub, finally retrieving the tattered remnant from his triumphant dog. They examined it carefully. There were no markings to indicate its origin, but its presence down a hole in such an out of the way spot was suspicious to say the least. Cub lay down and put his arm down the hole. "Ugh, I can smell badger," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I can feel it, but I can't get hold of it," he said, groping around in the earth. "My arms aren't quite long enough." He stood up and brushed himself down. "We'd better take this bit home and let the authorities know," he decided. "We'll leave the trip to the marshes for another day."

Accordingly with the rabbit and the piece of dinghy they returned home from their hunting trip. Ginger reflected that it had been an interesting introduction to life in the country.


	4. The Colonel takes charge

The Colonel Takes Charge

When they arrived back at the farmhouse, Cub went straight to report to his father in his study. The two of them were closeted together for quite some time.

Ginger wandered into the drawing room and sat down to await events. He must have fallen asleep, tired by his unaccustomed exertions, because suddenly something cold and wet touched his cheek. He sat up with a start to find Cub's terrier lying on the back of the sofa, its muzzle close to his ear. Ginger could have sworn the dog was grinning at him.

Ginger liked dogs and this one clearly had a lot of character. He was small and brindled with a sooty black muzzle and a small white goatee beard. Ginger was no expert on terriers so he had no idea what breed he was, but that was clearly irrelevant to the little dog who liked to waddle along with powerful hindquarters, his tail swinging jauntily. He regarded Ginger steadfastly with clear brown eyes. Ginger stared back and suddenly realised the dog had a squint. The dog winked at him conspiratorially. Ginger chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked Cub who had just appeared.

"Oh, nothing in particular," answered Ginger vaguely. "It's a rum old life. What did your father say?"

"He's taken our find and gone off to discuss it with the GOC of this area," reported Cub, shooing the dog off the furniture. "He must think it's serious or he would have waited until after lunch."

"Has he taken the dog cart?" asked Ginger, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"No, he's had the mare saddled and he's riding over," replied Cub. "He'll make better time that way. Even so," he continued, "I expect we shall have to wait lunch for him."

Cub's prediction proved correct. They were both beginning to feel decidedly hungry when the Colonel stamped into the room, dressed in britches and highly polished cavalry boots. He apologised for keeping them waiting. Over lunch he reported his meeting with General Jorrocks, the GOC Eastern Command.

"There have been several reports of enemy shipping in the area," he concluded. "Coastal Command sighted a U-boat off the Naze two nights ago, but they lost it when it submerged. It looks as though it might have landed a detachment and they hid the boat in the hole. We shall have to be vigilant! It could be spies or an advance guard of storm troops. There is no way of telling. I shall have a word with my fellows in the Home Guard," he continued. "Hopefully, we can spare some men to keep surveillance on the creek where you saw the light and the marshes where you found the dinghy hidden, in case they come back for it."

"They'll have a bit of a shock when they try to use it after Towser's treatment of it," observed Cub lightly, but his father rebuked him sharply.

"This is not a matter for levity, Nigel," he reminded his son with a frown. "It could be the forerunner of an invasion. They tried to set it up before; I wouldn't put it past them to try it again."

Cub, suitably chastened, turned the talk to the general progress of the war. The meal over, the Colonel rose, announcing he was going to assemble the men and arrange for a detail to patrol the area.

The two youths also stood as the old soldier departed on his errand. Once the Colonel had left the room they resumed their seats at the lunch table, lingering over the coffee and comparing Cub's CO, Captain Lorrington King, better known as Gimlet, with Ginger's mentor, Biggles.

"We'd better adjourn to the drawing room, Ginger," said Cub, as they reached no particular conclusions. He had spotted Mrs Mudd, the housekeeper, hovering in the doorway. "We're holding everybody up, and we can't let them get behind with their work."

As they left the room, Ginger saw the housekeeper swiftly move in to clear the table and set everything fair for dinner. The Colonel obviously ran the household with military precision, he mused. Everything by the book, running like clockwork, bang on time, and to the highest standards wartime shortages would allow. He felt faintly in awe and thankful that Biggles was more relaxed in his attitude, not that his CO suffered fools gladly, as he had found out on more than one occasion.


	5. Ginger acquires a new skill

Ginger Acquires A New Skill

The afternoon and evening passed slowly. The Colonel returned in time for dinner, having been successful in his task. They listened to the radio afterwards, cocooned in the drawing room, the lights low, the firelight flickering on the ancient panelling. The mellow tones of Alvar Liddell announced the news. The war in the Atlantic seemed to have turned the tide; there was encouraging news about the convoys and the bombing raids on Hamburg were being continued. Cub remarked that there could not be much left to bomb by now, but Ginger knew it was not as easy as people thought to make sure the bombs landed in the right place, from high altitude at night. He thought of the civilian casualties and felt sad. No-one was immune from death and destruction in these days, he mused. The bitterness of Jeanette's death was easing as time passed, but he still felt a deep sense of loss. War was a dirty business, he reflected. At least flying warplanes was relatively clean. It imparted a sense of distance from the distasteful act of taking another's life. Suddenly a vision of Schultz's battered body flashed before his eyes and he felt sick. His revulsion must have shown on his face because Cub anxiously asked him if he was alright. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Just remembered something awful," he gulped, taking a deep breath, "it will pass."

Cub asked no questions, aware of Jeanette's death, which, although Ginger had dealt with it matter-of-factly over dinner, he intuitively sensed had affected his friend deeply, and attributing Ginger's reaction to the talk of bombing, which he surmised had brought the memories flooding back. Cub knew nothing of Ginger's hidden secret; he had been unable to bring himself to talk about the Schultz incident, still horrified at the depths he had been prepared to plumb to defend Biggles.

With no dinner guests, Cub and his father retired early and Ginger followed their example. Although he looked out of the window before turning in, there was no repetition of the previous night's incident, so Ginger went to bed, only to toss and turn restlessly, pursuing elusive sleep amid haunting memories.

He must have slept eventually, but when Cub awoke him with an early morning cup of tea the following day, Ginger still felt tired and far from rested. To his annoyance he found that his arm was sore, the infection clearly still lingering on despite the doctor's assurances that it was almost completely gone.

After breakfast, Cub offered to show him around the farm, remarking that with the Home Guard patrolling the marshes, they did not want to be seen to be interfering or get in the way. Farming was a new experience to Ginger, who, although he had been born in a rural village, came from an area where mining, not agriculture, was the main employer.

When they went into the stables, Ginger was immediately struck by the smell of hay and warm horses. There was a line of loose boxes which housed the hunters and in the distance, he could see the stalls where the farm horses rested after their work. The chestnut mare who had been harnessed to the dog cart moved to the back of her box at his approach, her ears flat back, but the horse in the adjoining stable poked her nose to the bars, as if inviting a stroke.

"Go ahead," smiled Cub, as Ginger hesitated. "She won't bite. I can't say the same for Firefly, though," he added, indicating the chestnut. "Even I have to be careful with her. The only one she'll really tolerate is the Guv'nor." He laughed. "She wouldn't dare play up for him. Fancy a ride?" he asked idly.

Ginger was taken aback. He looked at Firefly and Cub laughed again. "Not on _her_, you ninny," he said, amused. "On the one you're stroking. Kara is a patent safety. She'll look after you through thick and thin. She's a Welsh crossed with a thoroughbred. Nice paces and plenty of common sense. At eighteen, she's seen everything and done everything."

Ginger was surprised at her age, but Cub assured him that with care and consideration, horses could continue working into their twenties and that it was better for them to keep active. He had to admit he was tempted. The mare nuzzled his hand as if in encouragement. With a great deal of trepidation, because his only experience with equines to date had been riding mules and the donkey, Lucille, he accepted Cub's offer.

Cub's face lit up and enthusiastically he dragged Ginger back to the house to find him some suitable riding clothes. Back at the stables in a pair of Cub's old jodhpurs and boots, Ginger was beginning to have second thoughts, but Cub would have none of it. They went into the tack room and Ginger saw the most bewildering array of bridles, saddles, girths and harness, all neatly arranged around the walls on specially designed fittings.

From a rack labelled 'Kara', Cub took down a bridle and saddle. With the bridle over his shoulder and the saddle over his arm, he led Ginger through to the loose box and showed him how to tack up. The mare was most co-operative, to Ginger's surprise. She even put her head down for Cub to slip the bridle over her ears. Cub clipped a lead rein to the bit.

At Cub's instruction, Ginger opened the loose box door wide and the mare was led out into the yard. He marvelled at the way Cub manoeuvred the, to him, enormous animal along the narrow corridor and through the door to outside.

In the bright sunlight, Cub led the mare to the mounting block, scattering the brightly coloured hens that were noisily scratching for grains on the floor. He tightened the girth, ran the stirrups down and asked Ginger to hold one against the length of his arm. Puzzled, Ginger complied and Cub shortened the leather by several holes, doing the same on the other side. At Ginger's enquiring look, he explained that the length of a person's arm gave a rough guide to the length of leg when on horseback. It made life easier, Cub explained, if the stirrups were more or less right before one got on, to avoid having to fiddle around.

Ginger agreed wholeheartedly. Now the moment of truth had arrived, he was not at all sure he wanted to go ahead after all and certainly he did not want to be fiddling around. It was only the thought of confessing his cowardice to Cub that made him follow the instructions and swing himself into the saddle.

Cub made some minor adjustments to Ginger's leg position and showed him how to hold the reins. The mare had stood rock still throughout, much to Ginger's relief.

"Remember to sit up," admonished Cub. "I'm going to lead her around the yard."

The mare's first steps were a pleasant revelation to Ginger and a broad smile spread across his face. As soon as Cub saw that, he knew Ginger was hooked and that riding would be a regular feature of his stay. The first lesson was short, just enough to give a taste, because, as Cub sensibly remarked, there was plenty of time and there was no point in overdoing things.

The mare was taken back to her box and Ginger helped Cub clean the tack. Once the bridle had been dismantled, Ginger wondered how the jumble of pieces would ever be put back together again, but Cub managed it in minutes.

After a quick tour around the rest of the farm they went in to lunch to find the Colonel fuming over a letter. It turned out that the invitation to women to join the Home Guard had been taken up by the wife of one of the local shopkeepers and the Colonel was not at all pleased by this tentative step towards equality.

The Colonel continued to mutter his displeasure throughout the meal, averring that women had no business pretending to be men. Ginger thought that it would be no wonder if the rumours he had heard of Worral's sarcasm and prickliness were true, if her superiors subjected her to a similar bombardment. His own view was that everyone had a part to play in winning the war, but he was wise enough to keep his opinions to himself.


	6. The Home Guard finds a clue

The Home Guard Finds A Clue

The rest of the day and evening passed pleasantly enough. Indeed, the day formed a pattern for the rest of the week with Ginger improving his riding in the mornings, spending the afternoons around the farm or in the fields and the evenings either reading, talking or listening to the radio and discussing the war news. Occasionally there were guests for dinner, but nothing as grand as the Lord Lieutenant's visit that had been his baptism of fire to the county set.

It was near the end of the week, as the pair were returning from a foray across the fields, that they met the local Home Guard sergeant puffing up the lane towards the house.

"Sergeant Girling," Cub greeted him. "What brings you here in such a hurry?" he wanted to know.

"Ar, Master Nigel," the man gasped, trying to get his breath back. "We've found something on the mud flats!" Ginger looked at him with some concern. The man must have been in his late sixties and, judging by the redness of his face and the shortness of his breath, was not as fit as he might have been. "We think your pa ought ter see it."

"What is it?" asked Ginger, agog with curiosity. The man looked at him askance and Cub quickly made the introductions.

"Don't know that I ought rightly to say," replied the sergeant obliquely and maddeningly as far as Ginger was concerned. "Your pa is our Commanding Officer."

Cub was tempted to say that he, too, was an officer, and a serving one at that, as was Ginger, but he restrained himself. He had known Sergeant Girling since his childhood and no doubt the retired Co-operative clerk still regarded him as a schoolboy, despite his many adventures since leaving his educational establishment1.

Contenting himself with remarking that the last time he had been seen the Colonel was in his study, Cub carried on up the lane, leaving the sergeant toiling in his wake.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" queried Ginger anxiously, as they walked on. "He looked pretty red."

Cub glanced back. "He seems to be managing alright," he commented. "Come on, I want to be there when he meets the Guv'nor. He can hardly keep me out of a room in my own house."

The pair quickened their pace and were already in the Colonel's study by the time the sergeant was shown in. Cub kept a straight face at the surprise on the man's face.

"What is it, Sergeant?" demanded the Colonel sharply. "What have you got to report? Speak up!"

The ex-clerk hesitated, glancing at the two young men. Colonel Peters followed his gaze. "You can speak in front of Master Nigel, man," he told him with asperity. "And I vouch for Mr Hepplewhite; he is in the Royal Air Force."

Ginger opened his mouth, but closed it again without speaking. Somehow he felt that the Colonel was in no mood to have the question of his identity clarified.

Taking a deep breath, the Home Guard sergeant announced with unconscious drama, "We've found a body!"

There was total silence for a few seconds after the dramatic announcement.

1 _King Of The Commandos_ Capt. W E Johns


	7. The plot thickens

The Plot Thickens

When the words had died away, it was the Colonel who broke the stunned silence.

"Where?" he demanded. "Whose body?"

"Dunno, sir," said the sergeant, answering the last question first. "A man, youngish, bearded, brown hair, dressed in a heavy sweater and dark trousers. He was washed up on the edge of the salt flats. Looks like he drowned. We couldn't find any marks on him."

"Is there any identification?" the Colonel wanted to know, but the sergeant said that he had come straight up to report the discovery as soon as the body had been found. The others had been left to drag it up well beyond the high tide mark and to go through the pockets.

"Good work, Sergeant," approved the Colonel. "You'd better get back and supervise the removal of the body to the police station." He reached for the telephone. "I'll contact them and warn them you're coming."

The Sergeant saluted self consciously and left the room as the Colonel spoke to the operator and asked to be put through. There followed a brief conversation in which the local police were alerted to the arrival of the Home Guard party and their pathetic burden. When he had finished, the Colonel replaced the handset thoughtfully.

"What does that suggest to you, Nigel?" he asked his son.

Cub said that youngish probably meant he would be in one of the services.

"I'd guess the Navy," hazarded Ginger. "Bearded, heavy sweater, sounds like someone from a submarine."

The three of them exchanged glances, remembering what the GOC had said about the reported sighting by the Sunderland.

"You could be right, my boy," said the Colonel, approvingly. "Bigglesworth was right, you do have your wits about you."

Ginger had the good grace to blush at the unexpected praise.

After tea, the Colonel was called back into his study to answer the telephone. It proved to be the police sergeant reporting what had happened when the Home Guard patrol had brought in the body.

Ginger and Cub, in the drawing room, eagerly awaited the Colonel's return. They were not to be disappointed.

"The man was a Jerry," announced the Colonel. "He was wearing dog tags." He turned his keen gaze on Ginger, "you were right, my boy," he said approvingly, "he was a sub-mariner, Albert Schmidt was his name. It seems that somehow or other he was lost overboard. The doctor has had a look at him and is as certain as he can be without a post mortem that the man drowned. He must have been washed overboard during the storm. It brought a tree down in the Park," he said, referring to the estate not far from the farm, "Lord knows what it must have been like for shipping."

"There's been no merchant shipping due to dock here for them to strike at," mused Cub. "So why would there be a U-boat in this area? Anyway, why would it be inshore and running on the surface in that terrible storm? It must have been most unpleasant."

They could come up with no reasonable solution. Ginger summed up their problem succinctly.

"So, what is a U-boat doing off this coast, and what could it have been up to that would cause it to lose a man overboard?" he wondered aloud.

The question hung in the air. No-one could give him an answer.


	8. Church parade

Church Parade

The following day being Sunday, the entire household attended the village church. Cub, his father and Ginger, all dressed in their Sunday best, led in the dog cart, while the housekeeper and groom who, Ginger had discovered, were in fact man and wife, travelled behind, similarly attired in their finery, in a governess cart.

The church stood by the village green, as it had since the reign of Henry VIII, when its incumbent had professed a different faith. In the intervening years it had seen off Cromwell and his Roundheads and the predations of Victorian improvers. Now, it stood solidly against Hitler, its bells stilled until either invasion or victory should free their tongues, its congregation reduced to old men, women and children, occasionally swelled by the odd serviceman home on leave, giving thanks for deliverance.

The party alighted at the lych gate. Mudd, the groom, having left the governess cart in charge of his wife, busied himself with the dog cart while the Colonel led the others through the gate and into the church by the main door. Inside, it was cool and dark with the scent of altar flowers heavy on the air. The light streamed through the stained glass windows, making rainbow shapes on the tiled floor and strange, box-shaped pews. The Colonel marched up the aisle, acknowledging members of the congregation as he went. There was much coming together of heads and whispering among the female contingent as Cub and Ginger passed by, a fluttering in the hen coop.

The Colonel paused by the first pew and opened the door. Cub went into the box-like enclosure. Ginger hesitated and would have hung back, but the Colonel motioned him forward. Cub was already kneeling, so Ginger followed his example. He could see very little for the high walls surrounding the pew.

The vicar came in, a small, grey-haired, corpulent man with watery eyes and a high, reedy voice, and the service started. Ginger could not remember the last time he had been in church, they had always been too busy for church parade. For Cub, he reflected, it was as much a part of the fabric of his life when he was at home, and as unquestioned, as the changing of the seasons. The Colonel read the lesson in a voice that could have been heard over the other side of the village green. Ginger wondered idly if he did it to wake up those who, tempted by the seclusion of the box pews, had been unwise enough to nod off, secure in their obscurity.

Half way through the sermon, however, he began to feel as though it was his turn to need stimulation. He suddenly felt as if all the strength was draining from his limbs. The walls of the pew seemed to be falling in on him and it was getting very dark. He clutched at Cub's arm

"What is it?" asked Cub, alarmed because Ginger was deathly pale. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel very well," confessed Ginger.

The Colonel took charge. "He's going to faint, put his head between his knees," he instructed his son, who obeyed with alacrity. "We'll take him outside."

Ginger, appalled at the prospect, protested weakly that he would be fine in a moment. Indeed, his head soon began to clear, although he felt very shaky.

The Colonel produced a hip flask and ordered Ginger to take a swig. When he obeyed, the fiery spirit burned his throat and set him coughing violently. Cub patted him on the back as the Colonel deftly retrieved the flask and, making sure it was firmly corked, put it back in his pocket. When the paroxysm was over, Ginger realised he did feel better, although what the vicar had thought of the commotion during his sermon, he did not like to contemplate.

By the time the service was over and they all filed out to shake the vicar's hand in the porch, Ginger was feeling back to normal and more than a little ashamed of his weakness. The vicar did nothing for his self esteem by expressing a hope that he was now fully recovered and feeling better. "I'm afraid my sermons tend to have that effect on people," he remarked sadly. Ginger blushed scarlet to the roots of his hair and mumbled an apology. The clergyman patted him kindly on the arm, but unfortunately chose the spot where the deep-seated infection had left a tender area. Ginger flinched. "Dear me," said the clergyman dismayed. "I am so sorry. Won't you and your party come to the vicarage for sherry, Colonel?" he invited them, tentatively.

Having some Parish Council business to transact, the Colonel seized on the offer. He disappeared into the study with the vicar while Cub and Ginger wandered through the french doors out into the garden.

Cub observed his friend covertly. Ginger's colour had returned, he saw thankfully. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked, seeking reassurance of his observation.

Ginger nodded. "I got knocked out in the Argentine," he explained. "I seemed to be alright, but after I got back I started having the occasional twinge of dizziness. That's why the MO stood me down. Nothing as bad as that, though," he confessed.

"It could just be all the kneeling," remarked Cub. "I've had it happen to me before now. I find those pews so claustrophobic, too," he admitted, draining his glass with a grimace at the poor quality of the sherry. He glanced back into the drawing room.

"Here's the Guv'nor now," he announced. "That means he's finished the PC business and we can get home. Come on." With that, he went back through the french doors and rejoined his father. Ginger followed and very shortly they were trotting back to the farm.


	9. A chance encounter

A Chance Encounter

The following day, at the Colonel's insistence, Ginger found himself, in company with Cub, riding along the river bank toward the county town to have a check up with the local GP. It was a bright, sunny day, and to their relief the wind had dropped. The sunlight glinted on the sluggish waters of the tidal estuary and seagulls drifted over the scene, punctuating the silence with their mournful cries. The trees had not yet started to put on their autumn finery. The horses were glad to be out. Cub had chosen Firefly as she needed the exercise and Ginger was now sufficiently proficient not to need a lead rein. She bucked and cavorted as she felt the grass under her feet and Ginger felt heartily grateful for Kara's sensible nature. Cub seemed totally unperturbed by the mare's antics.

The doctor's house was half way up the hill on the approach to the town. It stood back, approached by a steep set of steps edged by a metal railing. Ginger was surprised that the metalwork had not been sacrificed for scrap, but as he mounted the uneven steps he realised that perhaps it had been spared on the grounds of safety and practicality. It certainly came in handy as a hitching rail for the horses.

After a brief wait he was ushered into the surgery where, after a thorough going over, he was given a clean bill of health, much to his relief.

Having rejoined Cub, who had idled away the time of the consultation in the waiting room, Ginger gave him the good news and the pair emerged onto the top of the steps, discussing what they would do for the rest of the day.

While several proposals were being put forward and dismissed, Ginger's gaze wandered idly over the street. Suddenly he stiffened, his eye attracted by a couple who were standing further up the street, on the opposite side of the road.

Cub saw his change of attitude and asked what had attracted his attention.

"I'm sure I know that person," said Ginger, indicating the taller of the two, who had his back toward them. "I've met him, or seen him, before, I'm certain. I just can't place him"

"That often happens," said Cub, "when you meet people out of context. I shouldn't worry, you'll remember when you're not thinking about it."

At that moment, the person under discussion clearly ended his conversation with his companion. An envelope or small package was handed over and he turned around to cross the road.

Ginger gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes. His mouth went dry with shock. He recognised the man immediately as soon as he turned round. For a moment he stood there, stunned, his mouth open.

Cub looked mystified. "What's wrong," he queried. "You look as though you have seen a ghost."

Ginger found his voice. "In a way I have," he said, still breathless with shock. "I've just recognised him; he is a member of the German Secret Service. What on earth is he doing here, strolling up the street as though he owns the place?"

It was Cub's turn to feel a sense of shock. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely," confirmed Ginger. "I'd know von Stalhein anywhere."


	10. A good day's work

A Good Day's Work

Any plans for the day were now thrown out of the window. The first priority became finding out what von Stalhein was up to. Ginger was astonished at the man's powers of recovery. It seemed barely yesterday since they had left him severely injured. He must have an iron constitution, he mused.

The object of their curiosity, blithely unaware that he was under investigation, crossed the road and made his way up the hill toward the town. As one, Ginger and Cub hastened down the steps and collected their horses.

They mounted and walked slowly up the hill in pursuit. There was one advantage, thought Ginger. Von Stalhein had never met Cub and was highly unlikely to recognise him, Ginger, on horseback.

They managed to keep a respectable distance behind their quarry who continued on his way to the town centre. Ginger noticed that the man was walking with a pronounced limp, the legacy of his injuries in the Argentine, he presumed, but it in no way impeded his progress. His mouth went dry with shock as he remembered what the gypsy had told him. He had good reason to beware of von Stalhein.

On the way up the hill, Ginger looked for the man von Stalhein had been talking to, but he had vanished. It did cross his mind that perhaps they should have split up and one of them ought to have followed him, too, but his mind was in such a whirl at the sight of the German that he had not been thinking straight. He wondered what had been in the parcel von Stalhein had handed over.

At the top of the hill, von Stalhein stopped to admire the castle ruins. 'Damn the man,' thought Ginger, 'he has no business acting like a tourist. What is he playing at?' It left him in a bit of a quandary. Cub and he had to keep walking or it would look very suspicious. Recognising their predicament, Cub dismounted and lifted his horse's hoof, examining it for stones. Out of the corner of his eye, Ginger saw von Stalhein glance their way but obviously he saw nothing suspicious in two country boys out for a ride and having problems with one of the horses, for his gaze did not linger. Instead, he continued to look up and down the street. Evidently satisfied by what he saw, he turned on his heel and headed up the High Street.

Cub put the hoof down and remounted. "Neat work, Cub," complimented Ginger. "He didn't give us a second glance."

"We won't get away with that again, though," said Cub. "If he's in a branch of the Intelligence Service, he will be nobody's fool." Briefly, Ginger filled him in with von Stalhein's background.

Von Stalhein walked briskly up the main street before abruptly crossing back over the road toward an hotel. The George was an old coaching inn, a square, Georgian building with a portico supported on four massive columns. They watched as von Stalhein headed for the door, expecting to see him disappear into the lobby.

To Ginger's dismay, the German looked round before he went in and saw them. He altered his course and crossed the road, heading their way.

"He's coming over!" exclaimed Ginger in something of a panic. "He must have suspected something."

"Keep calm," said Cub tensely. "Get a grip of yourself. It may not be as bad as you think. He's not very likely to recognise you in this context, especially if you don't say anything. Bluff it out."

Von Stalhein barely gave the grey horse and her anxious rider a glance. Instead he came up to Cub and put his hand on the mare's neck.

"Nice animal," he remarked admiringly. The mare sidled away from him.

"She's a bit flighty," said Cub conversationally while Ginger felt the beads of perspiration break out on his brow. "You know what chestnut mares are like."

Von Stalhein agreed that he did, but averred that when one found a good one, she was very good indeed. "There is a lot of prejudice against redheads," said von Stalhein casually.

Ginger fumed. 'That's rich,' he thought. 'He'll be saying there's a lot of prejudice against Jews soon!' He bit his tongue.

"Did I see you have a problem just now?" continued von Stalhein.

Cub admitted that the mare had felt a bit lame, so he had got off to check out her hoof. "Everything is fine, now, though," he continued. "No harm done. She must have just stood on a stone."

"I'm glad to hear it," remarked von Stalhein. "It would be a terrible pity for such a magnificent animal to go lame."

Cub informed him that she was particularly valuable as she had good blood lines and moreover she was broken to harness, thus making her even more useful.

Ginger could have kicked him because von Stalhein then started to discuss breeding and the problems of breaking thoroughbred horses to harness. All the time he was getting more and more anxious, thinking that the German would be sure to look at him and realise that beneath the soft cap and riding clothes there was someone that he had good cause to know well. Cub seemed to be positively enjoying the encounter while Ginger's instincts were to remove himself as far as possible as quickly as possible. If he could have made his escape without drawing attention to himself, he would have.

Eventually, with a final admiring pat on the mare's neck, von Stalhein broke off the conversation and headed back across the road to the George.

As he watched the German disappear, Ginger felt quite weak from reaction. "I thought he'd never go," he exclaimed, letting out his pent-up breath in a long sigh.

Cub's lips twitched, thinking back to the tricks he had played on the Germans with his comrades of Les Poux Gris du Nord. "I've had more practice dealing with Jerries at close quarters than you have," he reassured him. "You massage their egos and you can have them eating out of your hand. They are so arrogant it makes them stupid."

"Von Stalhein is anything but stupid, remember that," Ginger warned him.

Cub looked at him sombrely. "Don't worry," he reassured his companion. "I'm not likely to forget it. He certainly knew what he was talking about, anyway." He paused, looking across at the old coaching inn reflectively. Then he seemed to make up his mind. Abruptly, he dismounted and handed his reins to Ginger. "Wait there," he instructed. "I'm going to see what I can find out." Before Ginger could protest, he crossed the road and after hesitating a moment on the threshold, went into the inn.

With what fever of impatience Ginger awaited his return it would be hard to describe. Cub seemed to have been gone for hours, but in reality it was no more than ten minutes. Finally, to Ginger's relief, he emerged, smiling.

"Well?" demanded Ginger when Cub had remounted and they were on their way along the High Street.

"He's posing as a Dutchman, a Mr van der Schans. He's in room 10."

Ginger eyed his companion with amazement. "How on earth did you find that out?" he wanted to know.

Cub smiled. "I said that I was passing and I saw a gentleman drop something and I wanted to give it back to him. I described him and the woman at the desk told me his name and room number."

"You didn't go up and talk to him again, did you?" said Ginger, aghast.

"No, of course not!" replied Cub scornfully. "I didn't have anything I could give him to account for the story. I just went up the stairs, waited until they were busy in reception and came back out again."

Ginger grinned at his companion. "Very smart," he commented. "Biggles would have approved of that. It's just the sort of thing he would do."

"Praise indeed," remarked Cub as they reached the end of the street and turned their horses' heads towards home. "A good day's work, I think."

Ginger could only agree.


	11. More developments

More Developments

When they arrived home the Colonel was in his study and a car with military markings was drawn up in front of the house, the driver idly smoking. They met Mrs Mudd in the hall. She looked flustered.

"Oh, Master Nigel," she said as soon as she saw him. "Your father wants to see you at once."

Instinctively, Cub ran his mind rapidly over the events of the last few days, searching for misdemeanours. A summons to his father's study usually meant a dressing down of some sort, but his conscience was clear, so it was with no sense of foreboding that he pushed open the door and entered.

The Colonel had a visitor. He was in the uniform of a Colonel in the Essex Regiment. Cub's father introduced him as Colonel Havers and explained that there had been a grave breach of security at Headquarters.

Ginger hovered in the doorway at a loss how to proceed. He had not been included in the invitation but he did not want to miss out on the action. Seeing him, Cub's father motioned him to enter.

"Don't just stand there, boy," he said brusquely. "Come in. This is Flying Officer Hepplewhite," he introduced him.

"Hebblethwaite, sir" corrected Ginger this time. "I don't make furniture."

"What?" said the Colonel. "Oh, I see. Hmph. Sorry."

Cub grinned and Colonel Havers hid a smile.

"Now what was I saying?" murmured Colonel Peters. "Oh yes, Colonel Havers here has informed me that there was a break-in at Headquarters last night. The only thing that was taken was a code book. Unfortunately, it was the one which is in current use and has only just been made operational. If the Jerries get their hands on that, they will know everything we are going to do until we can let everyone have the new codes. Potentially it could be devastating. The colonel came here because of that seaman Girling found."

Cub and Ginger exchanged glances. "What does this code book look like, sir?" asked Ginger. "I mean, how big is it?"

"About so big," said Colonel Havers, indicating with his hands a reasonable sized notebook.

Ginger mentally compared the size with the image of the package von Stalhein had handed over.

"I think we may be too late, sir," he said and described the day's events.

"I'll send you a detachment of men, any way," Colonel Havers promised his counterpart. "Your Home Guard will need reinforcements in case they decide to go out the way they obviously came in." He turned his keen grey eyes on Ginger. "It's a shame one of you didn't follow the chap with the package."

Ginger nodded ruefully. "I know," he admitted. "I could kick myself. How was I to know?" he asked plaintively. "All I could think of was von Stalhein."

"Don't blame yourself," the Colonel continued in a placatory tone. "You've done sterling work. At least we have some clues. I must be off," he concluded. "I'll be sending some men to the George to arrest our Mr van der Schans." With that he took his leave of the trio and drove back to town.


	12. A slippery customer

A Slippery Customer

That evening, after dinner, the party were sitting in the drawing room while the Colonel savoured the last of his whisky before retiring, when the doorbell pealed.

Wondering who on earth could be visiting at that late hour, they listened to the sound of the housekeeper's shoes on the tiles of the hall as she went to see who it was, followed by the distant murmur of voices as she greeted the visitor. In a matter of moments, she announced the arrival of Colonel Havers.

Cub's father invited him in and offered him a drink. When the formalities had been observed, Colonel Havers got straight to the point.

"I thought you might like to know," he said, "we sent a contingent to arrest this chap posing as van der Schans at the George."

As one they all leaned forward, eager to hear what had happened.

"Unfortunately," continued the Colonel, "the man had gone when they got there."

The disappointment that greeted these words was almost tangible in the air as he explained, " we only missed him by a matter of minutes. The receptionist said he had checked out only moments before. She said he asked for his bill immediately after she asked him if the person who had found the item belonging to him had given it back. Apparently, he was spooked when he found out someone had been enquiring for him. The man clearly doesn't take any chances," he observed. "It's almost as though he has a sixth sense."

Cub blushed and admitted that it must have been his fault. The woman at reception had obviously mentioned his visit to von Stalhein and, since no-one had come to his room, he must have put two and two together and seen through the ruse.

Ginger concurred. "He is a really tricky customer," he averred. "We've had a lot of trouble with him in the past."

"Still, all is not lost," said Colonel Havers. "The woman in reception did give us some leads on the people who had been to see him. We're following those up now. As you've had some funny goings on here recently, I thought I'd just drop by and tell you what had happened and warn you to keep an eye open."

Colonel Peters thanked him and the soldier left them to their discussion. Cub and Ginger were all for keeping a watch on the marshes.

"After all," Cub pointed out, "they don't necessarily know the dinghy is out of use, and they'll want to get the code book back to Germany as soon as possible."

"And von Stalhein won't want to waste any time getting back, either, if he thinks he's been spotted," added Ginger, eagerly.

Colonel Peters hesitated. "I've still got my patrol there," he said in their defence. "I wouldn't want them to get the impression that we don't think they're capable."

"Colonel Havers said he was going to send some men to reinforce them," Cub reminded his father. "Why can't we help as well?"

Eventually, the Colonel agreed that Cub and Ginger could take part. "But mind you don't get in the way," he admonished them as they went off to prepare. "And keep your heads down if any bullets start flying," he murmured under his breath after they had left the room.


	13. Dark deeds

Dark Deeds

Cub met Ginger in the corridor outside their rooms. He was dressed in full Commando battle dress, his face blackened.

Ginger took one look at him and unconsciously echoed the Duke of Wellington. "Crikey, Cub," he said, surprised, "I don't know what you'll do to the Jerries, but you frighten me!"

Cub grinned, his teeth showing white against his blackened skin. "I advise you to do the same if you don't want to make a good target," he said and smeared Ginger's cheeks, forehead and chin with the camouflage cream.

Unbidden, the words, "dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return" flashed through Ginger's mind. He hoped it was not a premonition.

Feeling faintly ridiculous, as though he was playing cowboys and indians, and vaguely amateurish in his civilian clothes, he followed Cub downstairs. The Colonel, he was surprised to see, was also in battle dress, a revolver strapped to his hip. A sense of unreality crept over Ginger, a feeling that it was all some ghastly nightmare from which he would soon awake to find life had returned to normal.

The Colonel issued Ginger with a service revolver and some rounds of ammunition. Automatically, he checked it was loaded and the safety catch was securely on. He had never entirely got used to carrying arms, although he knew he might well be grateful for the protection. Ginger looked at his companions as though seeing them for the first time. He felt he no longer knew them; the Colonel, now that the time for action was at hand, seemed rejuvenated. Ginger thought he looked as though he had shed twenty years. Cub, on the other hand, looked older, grimmer, an efficient fighting machine, a long way from the companion who had laughed and joked and taught him to ride. Ginger longed for a Spitfire and the freedom of the air. He felt ill equipped for hand to hand fighting and hoped that it would not come to that. Uneasily, he faced the prospect of another confrontation with the dark side of his character that had seen him reduce Schultz to pulp. He looked at his hands and tried to blot out the memory.

"Let's go," ordered the Colonel and they filed out quietly into the dark, moonless night for a rendezvous with the Local Defence Volunteers patrol and Colonel Havers' men. There was not a breath of air and, in the stillness, sound carried a long way. Ginger was grateful that his shoes had rubber soles and he could move noiselessly.

At the end of the lane, where the meadow met the marsh, a challenge rang out, to be answered by the Colonel. In next to no time they were surrounded by the detachment of Home Guard. Ginger regarded them curiously. They ranged in age, he guessed, from about 40 to 70 and came in all shapes and sizes. He supposed that the two younger men must work in a protected industry, such as the big diesel manufacturing plant he had seen across the river. The others were past active service, but, like their younger colleagues, keen to do their bit in uniform during the evenings and weekends to help fight Hitler. Sergeant Girling had nothing to report other than that Colonel Havers' men had arrived and had been deployed in the field, along the other side of the hedge where the dinghy had been found.

They settled down to wait. Time passed slowly. An owl passed by, hunting on silent wings. The silence of the night was broken by a screech as a small animal fell victim to a predator.

Ginger was just beginning to think it was a waste of time and they had better pack up and go home, when the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Somewhere, out in the darkness, a pebble had rolled. Instantly alert, he nudged Cub who gave his arm an answering squeeze to let him know that he had heard it, too. They strained their eyes to see in the darkness. Ginger thought he saw a shadow flit across the entrance to the field and touched Cub on the arm, pointing. Cub nodded.

They waited tensely, then, at a signal from the Colonel, began to edge forward. There seemed to be a dark shape at the base of the hedge where Towser had made his contribution to the war effort. Ginger realised that whoever it was must be trying to retrieve the dinghy. By the sounds of dragging that floated on the night air, obviously he had been successful. There were more sounds of movement, followed by a muffled curse. Ginger guessed that the damage to the dinghy inflicted by Cub's dog had been discovered. He then heard the low tones of a conversation, which puzzled him because he had thought the person they were hunting was alone.

Suddenly a light sprang up, the powerful beam of a torch, directed out to sea. It flickered as a message was sent. Surprisingly close in, it was answered by another. The listeners heard the splash of a boat as it was lowered onto the water.

Realising that if the code book was transferred to the waiting vessel, there would be no chance of recovering it, the Colonel decided to act. Switching on his own torch, he shone it on the couple who were crouched over the useless dinghy.

"Put your hands up," he ordered crisply. "You are surrounded!"

The effect was electric. The taller of the two men whipped out a pistol and began shooting. The other obeyed the order and put his hands up.

The Colonel doused his torch immediately and gave the order to return fire. Ginger had dived for cover as soon as he had seen von Stalhein's hand move toward his pocket.

There was silence. The gunfire had stopped. The Colonel risked illuminating the scene again. A body was lying face down in the hedgerow. Of von Stalhein there was no sign. Ginger and Cub made for the water's edge. Ripples were lapping against the bank and they surmised that the German had decided to swim for it. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but they could hear plashing out in the waterway.

"He's got away!" exclaimed Ginger disgustedly.

"Did they find the code book?" asked Cub, concentrating on the practical.

They went back to where the Colonel was examining the body. The missing code book was not there. The German, or sympathiser, they did not know which, lay in the lee of the hedge.

"That's funny," remarked the Colonel, bending down and peering at the corpse. "He seems to have been shot in the back of the head at close range."

Cub and Ginger exchanged glances. Cub raised an eyebrow and Ginger nodded silently. Von Stalhein took no chances at all.

The Colonel called up one of the full-time soldiers and ordered him to get in touch with his CO on the radio.

"Tell him to get Coastal Command out," he ordered. "Tell him we've let them slip through our fingers," he added, bitterly.

The man complied and soon confirmed that Colonel Havers was contacting Coastal Command.

In the darkness, they heard the throb of a heavy diesel.

"They're going to get away!" said Ginger, impotently.


	14. A close run thing

A Close Run Thing

As if to mock the frustrated shore party, the sky started to lighten and, in the growing dawn light, they could just see the slender shape of a U-boat gliding down the channel, towing a small boat. As they watched, a crewman came on deck and cut the boat loose, setting it adrift on the tide, before going back into the conning tower.

From inland came another sound; the throb of four powerful aero-engines. All eyes searched the sky and saw a Sunderland come into view. Those on shore watched, fascinated, as the duel between the aircraft and the U-boat unfolded. The underwater craft needed sea room to manoeuvre and submerge, the aircraft needed to get close enough to drop its depth charges.

Still confined by the banks and shoals of the estuary the U-boat began to throw up a curtain of Flak. The Sunderland's nose turret returned fire and Ginger saw one of the German gun crew crumple under the hail of lead.

Inexorably, the U-boat got closer to its goal and safety, but the Sunderland was gaining on it all the time. Despite the wall of anti-aircraft fire the U-boat's guns were throwing at it, the huge flying boat lined up for its bombing run.

Ginger saw the barrel-like depth charges drop and held his breath. The pilot knew his job, he thought admiringly as the high explosive straddled the U-boat. The underwater craft staggered like a wounded animal, it seemed to Ginger, and almost immediately smoke started belching out of the conning tower, closely followed by the crew as they abandoned the mortally stricken vessel. The submariners began to dive into the water. Having nowhere else to go, they headed for the nearest land, where they were swiftly rounded up.

The submarine settled in the water, amid a scattering of debris and a film of oil. A gleam of white marked the spot where the commander's peaked cap, in its summer cover, floated gently on the tide, like a wreath marking a burial at sea.

The code book was recovered, but Ginger searched in vain for a familiar face among the prisoners. Perhaps he had just swum further along the coast and had not been aboard the submarine. Maybe he had managed to get into the dinghy that had been set adrift. Whatever had happened to him, von Stalhein was not among the captured. Somehow, thought Ginger, it did not seem likely that they had seen the last of him.

The Sunderland now attracted his attention once more. It was skimming low along the estuary with the obvious intention of landing. He watched as its keel smoothly kissed the water and settled. Knowing how difficult it was to land a flying boat, he again felt considerable admiration for the pilot's skills. A boat was lowered and two airmen in full flying kit disembarked, making their way across to where the group was waiting.

To Ginger's surprise, it was Biggles and Bertie.

"What ho, old boy!" Bertie greeted him, screwing his monocle firmly in his eye to get a better look at his young colleague. "Someone been rubbing your face in it?"

Ginger suddenly remembered the camouflage and tried to rub it off, but all he succeeded in doing was smearing it still further.

Biggles, having greeted the Colonel, looked at his protégé askance.

"You seem to have been having a lot of excitement for someone who is supposed to be on sick leave," he announced. "The MO has changed his mind," he told the astonished Ginger, " he now thinks you may be suffering from a virus and it's nothing to do with your head wound after all. Your Medical Board is scheduled for tomorrow. I've come to take you home." He paused, looking at the dishevelled young man. "And wash your face," he added, smiling, "you look like a zebra!"


End file.
